


In Dreams

by Shatterpath



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/F, Femslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-30
Updated: 2012-08-30
Packaged: 2017-11-13 05:19:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/499924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shatterpath/pseuds/Shatterpath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deep in dreams, hope and fear war in Regina's heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Dreams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ariestess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariestess/gifts).



> Written for Once Upon a Land, challenge 14 (Team Regina!). This is a combo bingo: 25 prompts combined into one story. I had a tough time coming up with an idea, until I realized how many Regina prompts I had. Then, the idea of whole mess of them in a dreamscape came to me and the rest is history.
> 
> I dedicate both the work as a whole, as well as my gift prompt, to my partner Ariestess, because without her Regina muse, this would have never happened! Oh, and thanks for the beta too. :)

I don't sleep much.

 

A bid to keep my sanity, I can assure you. My mind is not a pretty place, cluttered with my pain and hate and the sharp, cutting shards of memory. In the bright light of being awake and alert, I can almost control them, sweep them safely away from causing me the sharpest pain, but even I must succumb to rest.

 

And in that blackness, they come for me.

 

Amidst the shattered mirrored glass of memory and twisted fantasy, I sift through, my subconscious ignoring the ranting objections of my conscious mind. Perversely, I half expect to see Genie's face amidst them, his presence always with me, frightening and slavish in his foolish devotion. But no, only here do I have peace from him, but never from myself. The Id always finds a way to make itself known, no matter that we would like otherwise.

 

My face stares back at me, foreshortened by the jagged edges, dark eyes shaded with every emotion. They may never change color, but they shade from love to anger to hate to fear to happiness and every nuance between. Those softer emotions tear me apart, their strength a weakness I cannot bear. Every face of me resides here in my dream-scape memories, whether I like them or not. My cold ambition, my white-hot anger and dark hate. The darkest, shiniest, sharpest pieces cause the most pain, my soul bleeding from the cuts. Here, the mayor that is such effective armor, there, the little girl just learning to fear the monster that is her mother. A screaming newborn held in my father's loving arms, my mother's face familiar in its cool contemplation. There, a child approaching womanhood, blushing with a true love that will inadvertently destroy her. The fear and desperate need for love that molded me as a child shines brittle from too many fragments, overwhelming me, making me run away.

 

Of course, I cannot avoid stumbling into the cold crystalline memories of Snow White. Oh why, oh why did she betray me like that? I could have loved that child. Ruthlessly shoving away that thought does me no good, the memories burning hot and sharp. Her sweet young face, her snarl of revenge, my seething frustration in my inability to destroy her! Oddly, James has a calming effect, for I do not hate him, only bristle because he is guilty by association. Like his cursed flaxen-haired whelp, something about him calls to me for calm, for care.

 

That way lies weakness! Maleficent taught me that, how love, or even just care, weakens the will. Well, reinforced that lesson, since mother taught me first.

 

Yet, I cannot forget trying to seduce David over dinner and dessert, thwarted as much by my own hesitation as his skittish refusal. How I had wanted him to hurt for loving that woman, for hurting Kathryn, who had gotten under my skin despite myself. The pregnancy should have roped him into the illusion we all live in this forsaken place, but he weasels away at every turn.

 

Just as he had managed to thwart me by impossibly saving his infant daughter from my wrath.

 

The drifting cloud of memories changes again, whipping like snowflakes and I can only deny them for so long. Emma Swan. Even her name suits her, as does all of us in this forsaken world. Beauty from ugliness, grace despite her rough, near-violent edges. She is the wildcard in my carefully constructed deck of cards, popping up and destroying all of my blood, sweat and tears. It has become a new hell for me, this chaos and unpredictability. I have given up too much to give up control now. Sometimes I think even the madness that is Wonderland made more sense than what is happening now.

 

Oh, Emma Swan, you will be the death of me. Perhaps not a literal death, but if my subconscious has its way with me, a symbolic death nonetheless. I am a creature of strong emotions beneath my icy shell, but the rush of feeling she causes takes my breath away.

 

By her presence alone, Emma has changed my ice to fire, burning away the familiar and leaving me at a loss. My anger with her is out of control, making me wince back from the flames, as she disrupts my carefully constructed life. Turning Henry against me, turning Graham against me, waking the dull and near-lifeless zombies of this forsaken town. Her hot, chaotic energy is a firestorm of wind, buffeting me, raising adrenaline and strong emotions that I have difficulty controlling. She is rude, and sloppy and temperamental...

 

and I cannot get her out of my mind.

 

Away from the broken mirrors, the cold crystals and whirling snowflakes, the roar of heat licks at my skin. I breathe it in, feel the fire burn me from the inside out. All of that angry tension for that... that woman, burns me alive. How dare she arrive in my town! Turn my town against me? Oh, damn that prophesy, that sickly sweet Snow White and her damn Prince Charming.

 

Oh, how I wish it were only anger that fans the flames.

 

Again, my subconscious does not allow me to ignore it, pressing against me until I must experience and feel. The forbidden fantasies have grown and grown, heated and elaborate and seductive. All of that anger and mistrust wrapped in a slim package and blazing blue eyes. Here, she comes to me, growly and possessive, slamming me against my desk, the pain sharp up my legs, vying with the carnal burn that makes me gasp and grow submissive. She is persistent and demanding, her thighs spreading mine, her mouth biting and sensual, hands calloused, nails sharp. The slick, cool décor of my office is another layer of armor that works on everyone but her.

 

More images I cannot shake, Emma sprawled back indolently behind her own desk, arrogantly wearing Graham's jacket, reminding me what I did to the man, daring me to come close and feel her fire. Or in my oversized shower at home, our wet, slippery bodies nearly creating their own steam in our combined heat.

 

They get even wilder, as though my attraction for this woman has set off parts of my soul I was not even aware of. Here, in these fantasies, my darkness moves away from manipulation and murder to instead focus desires both illicit and kinky. How else can I explain them? Here is the unknown of Emma's slender, naked body, sprawled on sheets I do not know, the room a faded unimportance. Even with blue eyes ablaze with need, body slick with anxious sweat, she is still arrogant, silently taunting me. It is not enough for my mind and I recoil from a threatening, shadowy shape melting from the dimness, bared teeth white and sharp. The monster is gigantic, the growl a low rumble like thunder. My terror turns my racing heart from lust to animal fear in an instant, hot sweat gone cold on my skin.

 

But I cannot move, frozen by the monster as much as Emma's soft chuckle. That sound tells me not to fear, even as my instincts scream warning. But the gold eyes beg trust, the wet nose and whiskers over the murderous teeth gentle against my naked belly.

 

I might whimper the girl's name when she abruptly appears in place of the massive wolf, I am not sure. Together, they do things to my body and mind that I swear could never be real. Oh, how I want and fear what they offer, this sweetness with no consequences, nothing to pay but the pleasure of our bodies.

 

But I welcome those carnal fantasies, not matter how strange or wild, when faced with the alternative.

 

The sweet, loving fantasies scare me more than anything. The want for them is terrifying. Carnal I can grit my teeth and learn to live with, the sweaty press of bodies, rough kisses, the thrill of pure pleasure beneath my skin.

 

But love, tenderness, romance?

 

I was denied that once, gone with my sweet stable boy. Gone with Snow White's betrayal and my mother's calm, icy wrath. Just thinking of my beloved Daniel makes my heart ache, the only proof I even still have one. I felt his disappointment keenly as I stooped to a new low, sacrificing the simple ring he gave me in earnest token of his love.

 

And I threw it away.

 

And yet … I am confused and torn in my pain from that decision, from all of my dark decisions. Perhaps it is wishful thinking, but I swear that I can still feel his love and devotion even through the betrayal. It refuses to leave me, as stubborn as the apple tree I planted in his honor, cursed as it is by poison, like my broken heart. Oh Daniel, so like my dear, cursed father. First mother, then me, he was always destined to be betrayed and hurt by the women in his life.

 

The accursed women of my line, my mother's deals with the devil that tainted me even before my conception. The deals that affect me against my will, preventing me from even hating her. For it certainly seems like a curse, never to have love. Not for real, not to keep, for I must always lose that sweetness to the darkness within me. Yes, the apples are like me, an illusion over the poison within.

 

Yet, there is a part of me, buried so deeply that I can ignore it; except when I find myself in this night scape, this place of hopes and dreams. How I miss being loved, it is a great, gaping hole inside of me. Daniel stood at its precipice once, would have done his level best to fill it. Henry makes a dent, or at least he once did before the curse started ripping apart my carefully constructed reality. Father was an island that I sank by my own hand.

 

And that white knight, flawed and wonderful as she is, could build a bridge across it.

 

I cling to the belief that it is too late for me, for it is the only raft I have as the curse and my carefully built reality falls apart around me. For I am little more than a flimsy piece of detritus in the storm, as the curse cracks and falls away, piece by piece. After all, this is the darkest of curses, intimidating even Maleficent, intimidating even the most powerful of the fairies, despite that blue bitch having given Rumpelstiltskin the idea in the first place. For someone supposedly on the side of good, she equals many of my own machinations.

 

That must have been a fascinating exchange between Rumple and the Blue Fairy. Wish I could have been there to see it. Obviously, she had not intended to provide him with the proposal of coming to this world, of destroying ours, stripping all of magic, home and hope. How love, or worse, love lost, drives us all to insanity...

 

We evil ones are broken creatures, unhesitating to lash out at all others in our pain and loss. Yes, it makes us evil, but there are a million pathetic reasons behind it. Just like the werewolves must be hunted and exterminated for their mindless hunger, good will always try to stop us. The Widow Lucas hid her secrets well, but like myself, and Rumple, and Maleficent and The Red Queen and the hordes of darkness, love and secrets drive us to sacrifices that often cost us our souls. Just as she sacrifices her own peace and happiness to protect her cursed granddaughter, ignoring the horror and body count, so must I, so must my compatriots in darkness.

 

Saddened and horrified by it all, here in the safety of my own mind, I can only sift through the scattered pieces of me and wonder at the destruction and darkness.

 

And yet, even I cannot avoid hope.

 

It glistens and shines like tiny diamond shards in the ashes, forcing my attention to it. Could even I heal my wounds? Could even I, broken creature that I am, find absolution and a second chance at the hands of the woman come to destroy me?

 

In a way, she already has, making me question myself and my decisions. Making me hope for something more than what I have accepted for so long. This dark path seemed my only path, so I stopped asking questions; I buried regret and forged recklessly, destructively ahead. But now, there may be a way out of my own darkness, a promise in blazing blue eyes that offer me damnation and succor.

 

Could I even bear forgiveness?

 

The unspeakable things that I have done haunt me in the deepest, most secret places of my soul. Here lies the little girl I once was, the young woman brought from despair by the sweetest love, the mayor who unexpectedly learned to love a child, abandoned by another and brought to her by fate.

 

Could even Henry, seemingly as cursed as the poor man whom he shares a name with, learn to forgive? Yes, that innocent, hopeful part of me craves that, a bright life with him and the woman who bore him, and my own scars. Picnics and summer vacations and laughter and sloppy Mother’s Day cards and sweet kisses and hope. For Emma and Henry, that is easy, for they are already best friends, their bond, once long lost, has grown truer and truer with time. I could not stop it, mightily though I tried, and it is just more proof how far I have fallen away from my plans, from my dark path.

 

To believe in no hope has been with me for so long, since before my birth really, that to look for another path is not unlike trying to breathe water. Can I even become something different? Trade my darkness? Ask for forgiveness? Pay for my crimes and somehow move on?

 

Could I learn to breathe water? Become a mermaid and be free of all this?

 

A last fantasy, different than all the others. Emma, in my kitchen, puttering over coffee while Henry carefully watches over pancakes nearby. I don't how I know my white knight is a miserable cook, but I do. She supervises the son we share with half an eye, leaning indolently against the counter top, clad only in one of those endless tank tops and a pair of ridiculous polka-dot shorts. I can't stop the tug of smile at the corners of my lips and the surge of love and warmth is as exhilarating as it is frightening.

 

There is a very real part of me that wants it, will always want it.

 

But the fear...

 

The fear is suffocating, coaxing me back to my familiar darkness and I feel frozen, just as I always have.

 

 

 

Why am I telling you all of this? Well, why not? There's no one to tell. After all, you're in my clutches now and there is no escape. For creatures of darkness like us, is there ever really an escape?


End file.
